


Cold

by Alley_Skywalker



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Angst, Dry Humping, Frottage, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prompt Fill, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 15:51:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8291540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/pseuds/Alley_Skywalker
Summary: The ride home from the Rostovs' house after the elopement fails.





	

“Go! Go!” Dolokhov shouted, pulling Anatole up into the sleigh just as it jerked forward. Balaga’s troika raced into the dark, scattering dawdling pedestrians and local drunks. The wind picked up, ruffling drifts of snow, picking it up and tossing it around. Anatole and Dolokhov sat in stunned silence for several minutes. 

Anatole moved closer, pressing into Dolokhov side, his face hidden in the upturned collar of his coat.

“How very stupid,” Dolokhov muttered. “Well I told you so didn’t I.” 

“You’re being unfair.” Anatole pushed down his collar and turned so they were face to face. “I shouldn’t have gone like this. What a waste, truly.”

Dolokhov scoffed. He raked a cold look over Anatole. The boy had snowflakes tangled in his hair and in the fur of his coat. His cheeks were flushed from the cold and the excitement. Dolokhov reached out and flicked some of the snow from Anatole’s hair. A hand caught his – stinging hot in comparison to the bone-chilling wind. When had Anatole lost his gloves? He closed his eyes and inhaled as Anatole gently kissed the inside of his wrist and continued to hold his hand afterwards. 

“I ought to hate you right now,” Dolokhov growled, pulling his hand away. “I told myself I wouldn’t get involved in your games but you don’t know how to take no for an answer.”

“You never even said no.”

Dolokhov’s eyes snapped open. He gave Anatole a glare. 

“Come, Fedya, it’s cold enough without your pride making things worse. That was all so terrible and…were you not frightened?”

“Of Marya Dmitrievna? Not bloody likely.” He knew that wasn’t what Anatole meant but he wasn’t about to say it. 

Anatole shrugged and curled into his side again. Dolokhov found he had no more room to back away and the recent adrenaline rush was still affecting his mind, so that he did not consider the option of simply pushing Anatole away. Instead, he looked down and watched the soft vapor rise from Anatole’s slightly parted lips as he breathed. 

Anatole looked up at him through his long, girlish lashes, smirked, then reached up and kissed him. It was a soft, drawn out kiss, still tasting of champaign almost an hour later. Dolokhov turned and grabbed him roughly by the shoulders, pressed their bodies together, forced his way into Anatole’s mouth, drawing a small moan of surprise and pleasure from the boy. “You owe me,” Dolokhov breathed with a small smirk. “For freezing my ass off here with you when I could be playing cards and drinking mulled wine or watching Maryoshka dance. And I agreed to it as your friend, but not for it to be all for naught.”

Anatole rolled his eyes but obliged. “And what would you have of me?” He put his arms around Dolokhov’s neck. 

“Come here,” Dolokhov said, pulling him forward and sideways onto his lap, kissing him, feeling the warmth of his friend’s body against his. 

Anatole made himself comfortable, steadied himself by holding onto the back of the seat, unbuttoned the lower part of his coat and then of Dolokhov’s, and began to rock his hips forward, pressing Dolokhov into the backrest. 

An electrifying sensation ran through Dolokhov’s body, spreading from his groin to his legs and curling up in his abdomen. He bucked forward to meet Anatole’s thrusts, their erections rubbing together, the double layer of clothes between them frustrating and sweetly painful at the same time. Anatole began to moan softly, the sound caught and carried by the wind. Dolokhov silenced him with a long, hot kiss. His senses were in overdrive, his skin prickling with the knowledge that they were technically in sight of all of Moscow but also realizing that in the dark, at this speed, no one would be able to tell a thing. 

He closed his eyes and drowned in the sensations of the moment: the cold wind in his face, Anatole’s hot body pressed against his chest, Anatole’s pliant mouth melting under his fervent kisses, Anatole’s silky hair sliding through his fingers, and the agonizing pleasure of Anatole’s erection rubbing rhythmically against his own. He could feel himself slipping closer and closer to the edge, the bright circles behind his eyelids sparking larger and brighter with Anatole’s every thrust—

The troika lurched to a stop. 

Dolokhov opened his eyes halfway and realized they were by the gate to the Bezukhovs’ house. Gently, he pushed Anatole off his lap. The boy went without protest, though in the gloom Dolokhov could see he was sucking in frustration at his swollen lower lip. “You should go,” Dolokhov said hoarsely. 

“Aren’t you coming?” Anatole asked. 

“No, no. Tell Helene everything. She will be in a better position to help. Go.” 

Anatole threw him a disappointed look, which Dolokhov turned away from. Anatole had brought this on himself. He heard Anatole jump out of the sleigh, shout a goodnight to Balaga and then the crunch of snow as he walked away. “My place,” Dolokhov said. The troika took off once more. 

The wind was just as strong, but Dolokhov had stopped feeling it. His face had gone numb from the cold.


End file.
